


Gifts, Favours and Love Tokens

by Morgelyn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 'Happy' Thramentine's Day!, Anal Fingering, Hallucinations, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Poisoning, Psychological Torture, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Rectal Tearing, Stockholm Syndrome, Stomach Ache, Thramsay - Freeform, Torture, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22663678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgelyn/pseuds/Morgelyn
Summary: This contains all the elements of a traditional Valentine's Day: cards, flowers, jewellery, dinner, even a risqué toy for later. How romantic!But as the man once said, "Ramsay has his own way of doing things."
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Reek, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy/Reek
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	Gifts, Favours and Love Tokens

“I have a gift for you, Reek.”

Reek was already a trembling wreck, as was always the case in his lord's presence, and the words did nothing to assuage his terror. In Reek's experience, his lord's smiles were to be feared, and benevolent words said in a magnanimous tone were the precursors to far greater agonies than the more usual contempt he received. Only his anger was to be feared more. 

And Ramsay's gifts had so far all been horrors. 

First there had been the letter from Balon Greyjoy that his lord had gleefully shown him, in which he declared that there would be no ransom because his son had been a man and that man was dead. This had been at a time when Theon still lingered and the words had helped convince Reek of the need to excise him. Theon's presence exacerbated Reek's pain, and why should he suffer even more for the sake of a ghost? There was agony enough without that.

Then there had been the collar of tinkling bells. At first, Reek had just thought it another way to humiliate him, to mark him as the pet he was so often called. But he had gravely underestimated his lord's artistry. Back then, he had thought him merely a brute and his cruelties likewise brutal; painful, of course, but wielded like cudgels. It was a notion that would be almost laughable now in its naivety, if Reek had still been capable of laugher. And it had been that collar that had first taught him of his error. 

It seemed that without even being aware of it, Reek had been trying to avoid humiliation as he carried out his duties around the Dreadfort by escaping notice; by lurking in shadows and keeping downwind, few even knew he was there. But his lord had been aware and thus the collar. The silvery ringing of the bells meant that his slightest movement drew all eyes to him, from smallfolk and visiting lords and all in between, and every one regarded him with a look of horror and revulsion. Some faces, if they had connections to Winterfell, were also tinged with a furious hate. And still worse were the occasional hints of pity, mingled in amongst the abhorrence. Reek burned under those stares, his shame laid bare and exposed beneath their disgusted scrutiny. He had felt such relief when, after much begging, his lord had finally removed the collar. After that, unless he was forced close enough for his stench to be noticed, it was seldom that anyone but his lord looked at him at all. 

After that had been the bowl of stew – not too much to hurt his shrunken stomach but just enough to fill it, and cooked long so it was soft enough to be eaten despite his broken and missing teeth. And what was more, it was warm and had been served at a table, in a bowl and with cutlery. When his lord sat opposite, fixing him with an encouraging grin, Reek knew it had to be a jape. Would he be punished for arrogance, for having ideas above his station, if he ate like a person? But it turned out to be moot; Reek had eaten like an animal for so long, stuffing whatever meagre food he could get into his mouth with his mangled hands and eating scraps off the floor like a dog. He was so out of practice with using a spoon and so very desperate to eat the stew before it could be taken away that there was little of human dignity in his meal. 

When he had finished, stew splattered down his chin, hair and clothes, his lord's smile had widened as he described serving a similar stew to his “bookworm, milksop of a half-brother, although that dish had been more heavily spiced.” Reek had not understood, until the cramps started. Soon he had been writhing on the floor, belly racked with agony which only intensified as what felt like molten steel erupted from both ends of his emaciated body. He had become delirious, so when his lord idly speculated on the likelihood of his shitting out his guts, Reek had felt it a real possibility and screamed as wildly as his weakness would allow until he lost consciousness. He had awoken some hours later – his lord's 'seasoning' seemingly having passed through his system – and found himself besmeared with his own piss and shit and bile, his rags stiffened where the mess had dried. And, of course, his lord had ordered him to immediately get on with his duties. What were a few more befoulments, compared to his usual stench? 

Then had come the strange purple flower, which his lord told him had come from land far to the south. It had been dried to preserve it for the journey and so its colours were muted, but Reek still thought it beautiful – a rare vibrancy in this world of black and grey and white. He had been disappointed when his lord crushed it in his meaty fist and threw the crumbled fragments into the fire. But when he then ordered Reek to kneel close to the brazier and look into the flames, the disappointment had quickly been replaced by fear. It had only intensified when his lord stepped well back, out of his field of vision. As the heat had risen, Reek feared that his lord had meant for his flesh to burn, but then the acrid smoke had hit his lungs. There had been an odd, tingling sensation in the top of his head and then behind his eyes. The feeling had grown stronger until it was joined by a lightness – only partially in his body, but mostly in his mind. 

He knew that his lord was behind him, but could also see him looking down on him from the fire, his cruel grey eyes still glacial as the flames danced around them. But there had been another face in the fire, phasing in and out with that of his lord – his own. Or rather, Theon's, before all of this. And the look on that face had been equally cruel. He had found himself seeing through both pairs of eyes at once, the grey and the blue-green, looking down at his own broken form kneeling in terror and confusion, as well as at a pair of small bodies with blackened flesh peeling from their bones. He had felt himself kneeling, the heat of the brazier uncomfortable on his face, but had also felt another heat so intense that he began to scream. He had screamed louder when the phasing stopped and all merged into one; he was Reek and Theon and his lord and two nameless burned farm boys, simultaneously and forever. It had felt an eternity, but the screaming eventually stopped as the smoke cleared and Reek had felt himself condense back into himself, cowering. He could only see through his own eyes, and Theon and the boys were gone. As his lord had smothered the flames, he looked down at Reek and, although most of his face was covered with a strip of wet hessian to block the smoke, Reek was certain that it was split with a grin rapturous amusement. 

And there had been the wooden phallus, big as a man's forearm and expertly carved so as to be both anatomically correct and smooth enough to avoid splinters when it was inevitably driven into him. After begging sufficiently, Reek had been granted the gracious blessing of sucking it first so it would not have to go in dry. But even with his missing teeth, he had been barely able to get the bulbous head of the thing into his mouth. He tried so hard, so desperately hard, terrified that his lord would break his jaw if he could not manage it. But he couldn't and so it was forced into his quivering arse lubricated more by his tears than his saliva. Until the second or third thrust, of course, after which it was lubricated by his blood.

It had been over a week before he had been able to walk at all after that, another before he could do so without sobbing at every step, and another again before he returned to his customary hobbling gait. He might have healed faster, if not for his lord's fascination with the open wound surrounded by red spiderweb fissures between his scrawny buttocks and reaching almost to the more prominent scar at his loins, marvelling at how it gaped and the number of fingers he could fit inside before they even touched the sides. He would demonstrate this to his Boys, most of whom responded with open admiration and some with well-disguised disgust; this was a little more than even their strong stomachs and carefully-cultivated proclivities could bring them to enjoy. And his lord had seemed most disappointed when the wound had healed, until Reek had uncharacteristically initiated and sat on his cock, his face burning with shame. “I suppose there is something to be said for keeping your boycunt tight after all,” his lord had said afterwards, and Reek nearly wept with relief.

Reek had given the same response to all of these gifts, and gave it again now, head bowed. “Thank you, m'lord. Reek is undeserving.” Theon would have baulked at the irony in these words, but Reek at least tried to mean them in earnest, to respond humbly to a generous boon bestowed on a creature utterly unworthy of any act of kindness. 

Ramsay smiled. “Oh, Reek! But you don't even know what the gift is.”

Reek shuddered. He had shown gratitude too quickly, and by doing so had perhaps even disrupted his lord's plan for tormenting him. For maximum humiliation, he should thank his lord for the gift _after_ he finds out exactly why it is a punishment in disguise. His befuddled mind struggled to find the right words. “I am grateful for any gift from you, m'lord.”

“As you should be, my pet. And now you shall receive it.” 

And with that, he bent Reek over the bed. He felt perfunctory preparation as his lord's fingers entered him, first two and then four in quick succession. They were quick and unsubtle, but coated in grease and that was more than Reek had been permitted in a long time. As his lord's cock entered him, stretching him painfully but without the burning friction of flesh on dry flesh, Reek began to weep gratefully. And for the first time, the gratitude was genuine and unambiguous. His lord had given him a kind and generous gift, and he would be forever thankful for his mercy, for this act of love.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thramentine's Day! ❤️
> 
> Hope you all have a great one, whether celebrating it or ignoring it, spending it alone or with someone, or indeed indulging in lurid fantasies of torture, sadism and twisted psycho-sexual dynamics... 😜


End file.
